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let the soft animal of your body love what it loves

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Six weeks into their second season as coach and pupil, they have a blow up in front of Yakov’s entire skating class that leaves everyone a little shaken.

Team Russia isn’t unfamiliar with the #Victuuri demonstrativeness. The public displays of affection, the occasional half-scold, half-tease they subject each other to when things get particularly competitive. But Yuuri has just come off a week of training almost solely with Yakov; and while his unforgiving criticism is occasionally hard to take, Victor has all of Yakov’s bluntness and none of his impartiality.

By mid-morning, the whole rink can tell—even the juniors just there to observe, in all their star-struck awe and chatter. Both of them have had their fill: Yuuri of Victor’s lack of tact, Victor of Yuuri’s resistance.

“The Lutz isn’t the problem, Victor,” Yuuri says. His tone is exhausted—not a snap, but a sigh—and certain. Uncompromising. Victor pulls up next to him, skids to a halt, toe-pick digging in and skidding snow. “It’s the placement. I can do it, just not where you put it. It’s not- It doesn’t flow.”

Victor stares for a minute. Then he clears his throat. “I think I’m meant to know a little better than you what the problem is.”

Yuuri’s shoulders rise. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Let me help you, is what I mean.” With placating hands, Victor starts again, “Honestly, Yuuri, I think it’s fine where it is, you just-”

“No, I’m trying to tell you-”

They continue interrupting each other. Victor remains where he is, skate sunk into the ice a couple meters away, but Yuuri takes one long glide backward even as their voices rise to the vaulted ceiling.


“I said, no!”

They look at each other in surprise. Victor is the one to look to the side, first, unsure and seeking. It’s usually Yuuri he’s looking for. So this is new. This, and Victor’s uncertainty, his wide-eyed look in the face of Yuuri’s teeth-bearing defiance, makes the other Russian skaters retreat.

As if he hasn’t noticed the pall of awkwardness they’ve thrown over the rink, Yuuri continues, “I can usually take it when you pick me apart, but this time, I think you’re wrong.”

Victor’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline—something of a feat—before meeting in the middle. He says, “Well. That’s bullshit.”

Yuuri looks as shocked as Victor, once the word is out. He goes to speak, but his throat won’t yield the sound.

So Victor continues, voice going raw, in that rare way it does when someone’s actually hurt his feelings. “Not the fact that I’m wrong—hell, I probably am. But as for you taking it? As for you listening to a word I have to say?”

Yuuri’s skated backward a few strides. Victor pushes his advantage, and has him retreating toward the boards before he catches his tongue. Yuuri’s hands are planted backward against the top of the railing, but he’s looking into Victor’s face with fire in his eyes, not even an ounce of the usual gentleness.

At the far end of the rink, where she’s trying to distract the younger skaters, Mila winces when Victor plants one of his skates between Yuuri’s, effectively caging him. She catches herself, chides their Yuri for staring, for the way his cheek twitches like he wants to go over there and say something. But no one, it seems, can ignore what is now so clearly a fight.

Russian Yuri’s eyes are as wide as anyone has ever seen them, as wide as they’d gotten when Yuuri and Victor had had the gall to cheer him on his Moscow—but this time, not with outrage. Then his pupils dart, like he wants to look away but can’t move his head.

They’re all still looking on when Victor starts in, again.

“You might hear what I say, and you might give me a yes, in so many words, but then you turn around and do whatever it is you want, anyway.”

This doesn’t douse the fire in Yuuri. His expression doesn’t change, but in a quiet voice, he asks, “Are you done?”

Victor recoils, like he has only just realized their position. He shoves back a little. “Yes.”

Yuuri shoots to the side, into the scant space between Victor and the boards, skating fast toward the entrance to the rink. He’s off the ice and shoving on his skate guards before Victor registers that he’s leaving. Victor swings around.


The younger skater only retreats more quickly, rapid clinking of skate guards against the concrete telling everyone that he’s on his way to the locker room. Everyone can also tell that he hears Victor call his name again, given how the angle of his back becomes even more closed off, defensive.

The locker room door shuts behind Yuuri solidly.




Yuuri stops there by the entryway, setting his hands on his knees and letting his head fall forward. He stays there until he can take a deep breath without shaking. Follows his breath in, and out. Emotions spike—anger, then humiliation, and then anger again—but he rips his mind out of the cycle with a forceful inhale, making himself track the next five breaths, in and out, counts each one. Tries to make his mind go blank enough to stomach the idea of leaving the room. Or at least, of standing up straight again.

He doesn’t even notice he’s gripping his hair until his scalp starts to hurt.

It isn’t many minutes that he stays hunched against the door, like that, but each one feels very long. Eventually, he collects himself, grounding his senses in the cold air and the accustomed smell of communal showers and old gym clothes. Not the nicest smell in the world, but comforting in its familiarity, the memories attached to it well-loved. Much better than anything in his short-term memory.

He stands up, turns, and just as he’s reaching for the doorknob, someone turns it from the other side; Yuuri is still rattled enough to let that startle his hand away. But by the time Victor pushes the door open and leans around it, just this side of cautious, Yuuri has stepped back enough to refrain from jumping. Still, Victor hovers, hesitates in the threshold, unsure of his reception.

For a moment, a pure fraction of a second, they look at one another with that hopeless devotion—Yuuri because Victor came after him, Victor because Yuuri was coming back on his own.

Then the fight resurfaces on both their faces. A gas stove set always at simmer, the warmth boils over and they glare at each other.

“Would you have done that to Celestino?”

Victor has a point, is definitely in the right, and so Yuuri answers, “No.” Immediate, and petulant.

And—Victor looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he wasn’t expecting Yuuri to be so honest with his complete disrespect. And oh. Oh, Yuuri’s fucked up—

“I see.”

Then Victor’s face shifts. From surprise, to pain, like he’s not even angry but just… hurting because of what Yuuri’s said and that is much, much worse than making him angry.

Still, he feels like he has to defend himself. “But Celestino also wouldn’t have yelled at me in front of everyone else like that-”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It was the way you were doing it—you were right next to me-”

“-still not seeing how that’s different to normal.”

“Y-you practically shoved me against the boards-”

“I’m hands-on, Yuuri, you know that—I always have been-”

“Wait- hold on!” he finally says, in Japanese. And the shift in language makes Victor take a step back, gives Yuuri the pause he needs to put both hands over his face and try to hear himself think.

He hates fighting with Victor. Hates it—it sets his gut to a sickening roil. Because they’re terribly ill-suited to it; Victor fights dirty, and doesn’t hesitate to bring to bring up parallels to events and conversations that Yuuri himself considers long-buried—and Yuuri doesn’t ever tell the complete truth until he becomes that scared animal against the wall, the one with tears for teeth. He feels that telltale burn behind his eyes now and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes to stave it off.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And that is a complete truth he can tell without crying. He is sorry that it—whatever it is—escalated to this point, even if he’s not sure what else he should be sorry for. And won’t be, not until he can parse through it with some more private headspace. “Can we take a break?”

Yuuri hears Victor sigh abruptly and rock back on his heels. “I think we’re going to have to.”

Yuuri knows the look on his face is helpless. He goes to apologize again, starts, “I-”

“I’ll be completely useless to you right now,” Victor interrupts, clarifying. He claps one hand over Yuuri’s upper arm. Yuuri clings onto it, grabs his wrist to keep him from pulling away, wanting to keep him close. And that needy gesture sends Victor’s arms around him in a tight squeeze—and oh, he doesn’t deserve it. He squeezes his eyes shut, and squeezes Victor back. Whatever forgiveness Victor’s affording him now, he doesn’t deserve it.




They leave the rink early. Victor talks to Yakov, while Yuuri apologizes to everyone on the ice. Underneath his old coach’s gruff dismissal, Yakov does seem to understand; Victor is shocked at how much. How he accepts, with nothing more than a nod toward the door, Victor’s excuses and Yuuri’s very formal bow of apology.

Then Victor looks to where the wedding ring used to rest on Yakov’s wrinkled hand. To that softly sunken indentation. And he feels like an ass all over again.

A brisk walk through the St. Petersburg spring afternoon and he and Yuuri arrive at their apartment, frustration melted into exhaustion—not like winter ice into spring, but like frosting when you try to spread it onto a cake that’s too hot.

They stand in the foyer. Still, for just a moment. Yuuri goes to kick off his trainers—he never unties them. To give Yuuri and himself a moment, he kneels down, working at unknotting his thoughts and his shoelaces. They’re still not looking at each other, but he thinks—hopes—he feels something like forgiveness humming between them.

“I shouldn’t have kept going in front of everyone,” Victor admits. But Yuuri just shrugs, so Victor continues, “I was out of line-”

“I was being immature-”

The words come out in a jumble, a tangle that twists their ensuing laughter together—until Victor hears Yuuri’s voice catch. He can’t help it; he knows that sound, and he moves as if he can drive it away, reaching for him, folding his arms around him.

All but begging, Victor says, “Please don’t cry, Yuuri.”

Yuuri heaves a wet gasp, almost a laugh, and wipes at his own eyes, frustrated. “You know how I get.”

“Mm. And I love you anyway,” Victor reminds him, squeezing a little tighter. “Even if I don’t always know what to do with you.”

They're pressed together, hands starting to wander a little. Yuuri's pressing his face beneath Victor’s chin, against his throat, shivering when Victor slides his fingers under his t-shirt and lifts the fabric. Victor asks, in a somewhat less serious and significantly more seductive tone, “What should I do with you?”

Yuuri just shakes his head, bits of hair tickling at Victor’s chin.

Victor sighs, breathing him in, the sweetness of skin under dried sweat. In Russian, he repeats, “What should I do with you, my Yuuri? I don’t even know if you understand me when I ask you that… Sometimes it is so hard to talk to you. To make you understand.”

He speaks quickly, indistinctly. Yuuri looks up at him with eyes already drying and says, “You know I hate it when you do that.”

Yuuri’s Russian is ten times, a hundred times, as good as it was when he moved in with Victor—was it only January?—but it’s still not fluent. It’s a notoriously difficult language, and nothing at all like Japanese. Yet Victor would be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes “do that” on purpose—speak Russian to make Yuuri blush in irritation.

He can’t help that he finds it so adorable.

He continues in his native tongue, but off-handed. Muses aloud about nothing in particular—to distract Yuuri from any more legitimate reason for being upset. As he speaks, he keeps his hands where they are, rubbing small circles with his thumbs over Yuuri’s hips.

“Well if I can’t use words to make you understand, what should I use, hm? More hands-on coaching? Should I teach you a lesson? Make it hard for you to sit down?”

Yuuri pulls away from him, plants his hands on Victor’s chest—not unkindly—to back out of his embrace.

“Anyway. I’ll start dinner if you want to keep standing there talking to yourself.”

Though he ducks and turns away from him, starting for the kitchen, Victor is sure Yuuri’s face is red. His shoulders have got that “I can’t look at you or you’ll know what I’m thinking” slant to them.

Still, he calls out, “Yuuri?”

“Why don’t you use the shower first?”  Yuuri says, putting the refrigerator door between them.




Yuuri thinks about the problem as he begins to chop vegetables for their dinner.

The problem is… well. The problem is—

One problem is definitely that Victor thinks Yuuri’s Russian is worse than it is, after almost six months in St. Petersburg.

The other problem is that they had come into the relationship on unequal footing. And what Victor just said, is reminding Yuuri of a sickly satisfying aspect of that power dynamic—one he’s barely allowed himself to entertain, let alone confided in his lover.

Victor is older, first of all. Although four years isn’t much, it’s eons in the skating world. And he is several times over Yuuri’s level of rich and famous. Not to mention the entire reason they started interacting at all was Yuuri (apparently—drunkenly—Yuuri still can’t remember the night of the Sochi banquet in more than color and texture) inviting Victor into a position of power over him.

Victor finishes with the shower and Yuuri trades with him. Handing over the knife, the barely piled ingredients, he barely has enough wherewithal to acknowledge the kiss that Victor presses to his temple as he leaves the kitchen.

Under the water pressure, Yuuri’s thoughts come a little easier.

It’s a strange dynamic between them, even today. Because while Victor remains his coach, nominally, Yakov is really the one who works with them both. Victor still helps him, but it isn’t like it was last year. There’s typically not the same level of guidance. And when there is… it’s technically coming from a fellow competitor. Yuuri hasn’t quite learned how to accept it.

He does miss it, to a certain extent. Having the man himself, all to himself—taking direction from the Victor Nikiforov. Having Victor descend from the podium to make him, dime-a-dozen Katsuki Yuuri, into a work of art. To make him sweat, bleed—to hold him accountable. Still, it’s not so much that he wants what they had. He adores what they have now, most of the time: Victor skirting the boundaries between motivation, competition, and support. Professionally, it suits them far better than Victor trying to act as the coach who could meet all the needs he’d had, then: rebuild him from the ground up, reign him in.

Do whatever it is you want, anyway.

—which, Yuuri notes to himself even as he winces at the memory of the words, had been a completely hypocritical thing for Victor to say, given how he’d treated Yakov in the past.

But then… what is the point of having a coach at all if you’re not going to listen to them?

Suffice to say, it’s a wonderfully complicated professional relationship. The rub is that it isn’t professional. Never was, and never will be.

Yuuri groans and runs his fingers harder through his hair, slick with conditioner. All he knows is that there are times he wants to lay himself out for Victor like a canvas once again. That he longs to let Victor’s hands guide him somewhere he’s never been before.

“That’s it,” he tells himself, aloud.

That. And the fact that just now, when Victor was mumbling in Russian and had threatened—asked??—to spank him, the words had gone straight to his groin. Of course it wasn’t a threat, not really. It was a musing tease, and Victor didn’t think Yuuri could understand. But Victor never teased him without an ulterior motive. And most of what he said in jest was true at the heart.

Yuuri undoubtedly has a praise kink. He lives for Victor's compliments on the ice, and Victor knows that when he calls him “good boy” in bed he'll lose his breath, clutching at whatever's nearest to ride out the ice-hot rush of blood that travels up his core.

But this... is not a button he knew he had.

He knows he's possessive over Victor—and vice versa, though they show it in different ways: Victor with that constant contact and Yuuri with outward gestures. Yuuri proves to the world through his art, the way he expresses everything else, that Victor belongs to him.

So maybe it makes sense. Victor's always touching him. He likes it when Victor touches him, craves it when he’s not. Likes to be overwhelmed by sensation. And he does prefer it a little rougher than Victor does, whatever they’re doing, and prefers to bottom because he’s addicted to the balance between knife-sharp pleasure and dull ache.

He wants that, wants more of it. Thinks maybe Victor has hit on a good way of making the more of it happen.

Yuuri wants it on his own terms, but the idea of playing with the reason—that it's punishment, that he has to endure it, not that he wants it—lends a certain appealing distance to it. Makes the soles of his feet tingle and all the hair on his arms stand up.

So when he gets out of the shower, he wraps a towel around himself and pads across the living room to where Victor is finishing the dinner prep. He leans against the door jamb, watches Victor’s forearms flex, watches, through the damp white of his v-neck shirt, the muscles in his back softly ripple.

“Victor,” he says, erasing every trace of his accent—which he always tries to do when they’re speaking Victor’s native tongue.

His fiancé looks over his shoulder at him, fringe falling over half his face. He looks so lovely, like this—especially like this, all relaxed, all domestic, face flushed from the heat of the stove.

Before he devolves into sentimentality—or worse, loses his nerve—he says in his limited Russian:

“You should. Sometime.”

Victor stares at him with a little crease between his eyebrows before his eyes go very wide and his grip slips on the ladle he’s holding. He loses it in the sauce—but by the time he salvages it, Yuuri has already started toward their bedroom to change. 




Victor has said from the beginning—the actual beginning, not Yuuri’s version of their beginning—that they have great physical chemistry.

So when it comes to adding this new compound to the formula, Victor has decided:

He’s just going to try it.

There’s risk in surprise, of course. But if Yuuri wasn’t willing to assume the risk, Victor decides, he wouldn’t still be with Victor. He wouldn’t have accepted him as a coach. He wouldn’t have proposed to him. He certainly wouldn’t have moved a third of the way across the globe to a country whose language he didn’t speak. Yuuri, Victor knows, is as enamored of surprise as he is, himself.

And it wouldn’t be the first time Yuuri has asked him, in his roundabout way, to get a little rough with him.

Once, when Yuuri had first moved into Victor’s apartment, he’d come back from the shower, pushed his damp hair back from his face with a smirk, and toyed with Victor until he’d gone boneless against the mattress. Then he’d actually accused Victor of being a pillow queen. Victor was at first impressed that Yuuri even knew the term—

And then Victor had shot back that “not all of us have to work so hard for what we want.”

He’d meant it as a tease. But Yuuri took it personally—of course he had—and they’d had something of a tiff. The angry sex, though, had been worth it. to Victor’s mind at least.

Yuuri had forgotten his usual care. After what seemed like second of foreplay, Yuuri had—not so much taking him in as testing just how hard he could fuck himself on Victor’s cock-

Victor’s breath of, “Be careful, god” was totally rejected.

“Are you in pain?”


“Then it’s fine.”

And… come to think of it, Yuuri had said it more like “are you in pain.” A clarification of subject, rather than of descriptor. It didn’t matter, how far he could go before or even past the point of hurting himself, because it didn’t take much for Victor to go wordless and compliant beneath Yuuri’s thighs.

“You move like a fucking dream, Yuuri…”

Reaching into Victor’s hair, Yuuri had pulled, yanking Victor upward and bowing his back. “I know. Now tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Victor had said. Immediate—no shame, all heat, all breath. “I—unh—I belong to you, only you Yuuri, anything-”

It’d been nonsense at that point, and it might not have been in English, he wasn’t sure. But when his orgasm blazed through him, the whole universe behind his eyelids and glowing warm through his core, his limbs, it didn’t matter.

Victor was still seeing stars—and Yuuri had actually apologized in the afterglow. Which had made Victor laugh. Which had sent Yuuri blushing and hiding under a pile of blankets until Makkachin had jumped on him in concern.

Worth it, indeed.

But they’d never really discussed it.

Now, Victor supposes, they’ve taken a few too many steps toward action for discussion.

Which, of course, was their modus operandi.




That night, Yuuri can’t keep Victor from pulling the truth out of him. Can’t keep Victor from reducing him to this needy, honest thing—the way he always does. With his body, with half-truths, and with pushed boundaries.

Yuuri isn’t surprised that things get heated so quickly after dinner. They usually do, after any kind of emotional upset. He’s not even sure who starts it; whether it’s the look he gives Victor across their little table, or whether it’s Victor gripping his hand and kissing his knuckles, or whether it’s the way Yuuri grabs at Victor when he stands up to put their dishes away—

But now, they’re in their bed, and so close to being connected. Yuuri is so close to having Victor buried inside him as deep as he can get. But Victor stops. With Yuuri shoved up against the headboard, gripping it pathetically, arching up against Victor. Victor, who just sits there on his knees, pressing his dick up against Yuuri’s hole. Rubbing the head across flesh, dripping slick, until Yuuri’s thrashing his head from side to side, trying to understand why he’s not getting what he wants, why he’s not being filled. Seemingly out of nowhere, Victor’s breathing slows down, and he brushes his thumb over Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri tries to bear down, saying, “Come on, Victor, make love to me.”

Victor just grips himself, pushes forward in the most infuriating tease that has Yuuri spread wide around the head of his cock, and says, “That’s what I’m doing.”

Yuuri heaves one frustrated sigh after another, his voice higher pitched than he’s ever heard it himself, while Victor says: “I am, I am making love to you, Yuuri, this is part of it—”

“Mean, you are so mean-”

Victor interrupts him, silencing the tirade by shoving himself halfway inside Yuuri’s ass. It renders Yuuri incapable of speech, unable to catch his breath.

In the face of Yuuri’s shock when Victor gives Yuuri what he wants, Victor leans closely over him and say, “Be good for me. Ask me for what you actually want, and you’ll get it, huh?”

Victor thrusts deeply, unyielding. Pushes past the usual depth and then keeps going, threading his hand through Yuuri’s hair and pulling when he asks, “You don’t want to make love—you want to fuck. Right?”

Yuuri nods, impatient, uncertain, tears under his eyelashes, “Yeah—god, Victor-”

“Then get ready, and don’t hold your breath like that.”

Yuuri doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He tries to take another breath, but the pressure inside, and the overwhelming glory of the helpless look on Victor’s face, keeps him from taking as full a breath as he probably should.

“I said don’t hold your breath, I’ve told you before—”

Victor smacks Yuuri’s thigh. Just hard enough—a light pop of flesh on flesh, reminiscent of the slapping sound that fills the room when he gets Victor buried inside him, thrusting hard, skin against skin. Victor probably assumes it’ll get Yuuri to gasp, get him to see that breathing helps. And it does; the hit makes Yuuri gasp, let go of one long, pathetic exhale, then take one pleading inhale—sounding more like he’s being strangled than anything. So he keeps the following exhale in. Holds the next breath behind his teeth, the pressure of it settling between his ears like a headache. He doesn’t really mean to; just trusts Victor’s tone, just knows that he can sink into it and let Victor correct him if he screws up again—the way he does as a coach.

“That’s right,” Victor says. And he starts to fuck Yuuri open, patiently.

At the same time, Yuuri sees that his lack of cooperation is what is making Victor handle him so beautiful, so possessively: almost roughly—as rough as Victor can be with Yuuri, off the ice.

So while all Yuuri can do for the next few moments is gasp, like Victor intends, he watches for even the tiniest fault in Victor’s rhythm. When he finds it—when Victor leans down to seal their mouths together, Yuuri takes the slide of Victor’s tongue, the too smooth glide of Victor’s cock inside him, for as long as he can stand.

Then he pulls back. Breathes loudly into the space between them. Closes his lips over his teeth on the next breath.

Victor can’t hear any breathing at all, anymore, Yuuri knows. And like Yuuri thought he would, Victor quirks his head to the side—confused, ready to be annoyed. Until he sees—he must see—from Yuuri’s beckoning gaze, what Yuuri wants.

“So that’s it, huh?”

Victor grips both of Yuuri’s thighs from underneath, spreads them, sinks his fingernails into them until Yuuri surrenders a helpless noise from the back of his throat. Until he has to breathe deeply, with the way Victor is forcing him apart.

Maybe it seems to Victor like Yuuri is asking Victor to draw it out of him because he was too shy to ask for it outright—the way he was too shy to ask Victor for much of anything before his outburst at the China Cup. But it doesn’t matter what Yuuri seems like, right now, because he must seem how he wants Victor to see him, because Victor says:

“So you won’t do what I say as long as you think you can get a better outcome, hm?”

Victor’s pace turns harsh, ruthless in the way he folds Yuuri in on himself and hits that angle that makes Yuuri writhe and gasp. He does so, now, knowing he must look giddy with it. If this is how far he can push Victor without even asking, well-

He was the one who had first yanked Victor forward over the boards by his tie.

He started this. And he is damn well going to finish it.

Chapter Text

Despite his decision to just try it, despite his endless (though not unpleasurable) mental review of the repertoire of their physical relationship, Victors waits a few days to do anything more. Until his blood pressure doesn’t rise any higher than normal arousal levels when thinks about putting Yuuri in his place.

Or, at least, guiding Yuuri to a place he’s ninety percent sure Yuuri wants to be.

Victor waits and imagines and simmers until a night he’s guaranteed to come home late. Just at dusk, he’ll be back from a long weekend at a promotional function Yuuri doesn’t attend. He hates the separation from his fiancé as much as he’s ever hated it, ever since last year’s Rostelecom. But he loves how they both itch for more intense contact when either of them spend the night away from home. Separation is always an excuse to up the intensity of their sex. Tonight will be no exception.

The execution, of course, will be.

A cab drops him at their apartment. It’s an unseasonably warm night, and Victor’s got his coat over his arm and the long sleeves of his button down pushed up over his elbows. He steps through the threshold, carry-on bag trailing behind him, and knows exactly the image he’ll present. Knows that Yuuri is likely to climb him like a tree even if he comes home wearing sweats; but when he comes home looking like a Sophisticated, Watch-Wearing Adult™ Yuuri’s hero complex reignites. Colors the way Yuuri reacts to him. He’s more likely to ask Victor to top, and several times more likely to let Victor take him on his back, to set the pace, to cover Yuuri with his body and demand—though Victor hasn’t done the math.

Maybe I should do the math.

And then he forgets why, when footsteps shudder from the direction of the spare room, and Yuuri rounds the corner, locking eyes with him.

Yuuri smiles like the sunset reversed, and Victor’s world goes warm and bright when Yuuri squeaks and throws himself bodily into Victor’s open arms. Yuuri’s arms around Victor’s neck, his hair tickling his neck, his cheek, his voice in Victor’s earth, breathing a soft “okaeri.” Victor could die happy like this.

After a long moment, Yuuri steps out of their initial embrace and starts running his thumbs along the definition of Victor’s forearms. Then he’s leaning up on his toes—getting into Victor’s space, pressing his lips to the hollow of Victor’s throat where he’s already undone the first two buttons.

Yuuri’s voice rumbles, tickling at the sensitive skin of his neck, when he says, “You know, it reminds me of when you first cut your hair, when you dress like this.”

Victor cocks his head to the side, feeling the smile stretch slowly. Smug, like a cat who’s about to get the cream—and he’s a little glad Yuuri can’t see it. “Hm? And what did you think, when I cut my hair?”

“I’ve already told you I was crushed at first,” Yuuri continues, tease slipping into his tone. “But less so, when I realized that you looked like you were trying so hard to be a grown-up.”

Victor doesn’t even have to think before rising to the bait. The banter between them has always gotten his blood rushing, and he knows it does the same for Yuuri. More important, he knows that Yuuri is at his bravest, when his veins are lit through with a fight—even a pretend one.

“Is that all you thought?” Victor asks. “That I was trying too hard?”

Yuuri pulls back a little. Just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t say too hard.”


“Well…” He colors. Victor hopes he never stops blushing, no matter how comfortable this all becomes. “I thought that I might let- ah…”

Victor reaches up, threads one hand into Yuuri’s hair, and says, “Just say it, love.” He squeezes a little, and Yuuri gasps, allowing his head to be tipped back.

“Alright.” Not entirely put out. No, not at all, in fact—his next words come out in an anticipatory rush. “I’d let him fuck me up.”

For all that Yuuri speaks much less formally to him than he had when they first met, he doesn’t swear. Even in bed, he almost never has, except for the occasional breathless curses in Japanese that Victor still doesn’t understand. (Mostly because Yuuri won’t tell him what they mean. And by the time he gets to Google Translate, he’s usually forgotten the word.)

“Will you let me, now?”

“Hm?” Yuuri mumbles, eyelashes fluttering with distracted pleasure.

Victor pulls at Yuuri’s hair, still in his grip, and pitches his voice down the way he knows it’ll make Yuuri squirm. “Will you let me, as you say, fuck you up?”

Yuuri nods against the tight grip, and Victor takes it as permission to demand.

He lets go, first. Takes a step back.

“Then strip for me, sweetheart.”

Yuuri does; but Victor doesn’t let him pace it. He backs Yuuri into the living room—t-shirt and socks left haphazard along the hardwood—then into their bedroom, where he stands in the middle of the room, slowly removing the button-down and the thin cotton shirt under it while Yuuri undresses completely.

“On the bed,” he manages.

Victor watches Yuuri stretch himself out over their sheets, on his belly. But he looks over his shoulder at Victor—he knows exactly what he’s doing when he does that, the little tease—and asks, “Like this?”

Nodding, Victor lets his eyes rove over the long line of his lover’s back, the swell of his ass. In the low light in their bedroom, purpling with twilight, Victor can see that the inside of his thighs are glistening.

“Oh? Did you do a little prepping yourself while you were waiting for me?” Victor asks, feeling himself stiffen at the thought. He undoes the fly on his slacks and kneels on the edge of the mattress, shuffling forward so he can drag his fingers down Yuuri’s spine. Yuuri just breathes contentedly, barely nodding.

But that’s not what Victor wants—what he needs, right now.

He pulls his fingers away, before moving abruptly to straddle Yuuri’s waist. He reaches down while Yuuri gasps with surprise; he buries one hand in Yuuri’s hair, and grips, tilting his head to the side. He sets the fingers of his other hand gently against Yuuri’s jaw.

“I asked you a question. I need you to answer me out loud, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes are all but black, in this light, under Victor’s heated stare. He blinks rapidly, like he might be blinking back tears—but he says, under his breath but clear, “Okay.”

And now Victor knows he can’t go on unless he knows exactly what Yuuri is willing to take. All he can hope is that he doesn’t sound like he’s begging when he asks, “Tell me, love. What do you want?”

“You already know,” Yuuri laughs—maybe a little nervously, as he pulls Victor down to lay side-by-side with him. “I don’t know the words in English.”

“Your English is better than mine, you little tease.”

Victor bites his own bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth as he makes up his mind. Then he surges downward, bites Yuuri’s bottom lip. Yuuri groans, sends his legs around Victor’s waist and whines into his mouth.

Fuck, Victor—” he says, against the liminal space between Victor’s lips.

“Oh, you must really have built this up in your head if you’re already swearing about it. That’s twice, tonight,” Victor teases. Yuuri blushes even more deeply, if that’s possible. (But Victor knows by now: it’s always possible, with Yuuri.) “You know the words. You’re just not saying them. Tell me what you want.”

Yuuri nods, finally bursts out, “Hurt me.”

His tone belies how ruffled he looks. But he’s too close for Victor to see his eyes. Without that tell, Victor is hard pressed to believe that that’s what Yuuri really means. So he kisses Yuuri with the all the decadence he can muster—a not inconsiderable amount, as he’s never had to struggle to hit the sweet spot of anyone he’s kissed. Still, that number is less than his gossip rag reputation suggests—and anyway, there was never anything of meaning, of love, of devotion or even time in any of his previous experiences. But with Yuuri… Victor trembles when he kisses Yuuri—every time—and hopes it’s what Yuuri wants.

He pulls back, and repeats, “You want me to hurt you?”

“Yeah- but… Well. That’s…” Yuuri sighs, closes his eyes, runs his fingers down Victor’s back. “That’s not quite- or, that’s not all of it. I guess.”

“You guess?”

Yuuri tries to meet Victor’s eyes again—it seems a valiant attempt—but then looks down, licks at the corner of his own lips. When Victor chases the sheen of spit with his thumb, Yuuri opens his mouth easily, thoughtlessly.

“Uh,” Yuuri exhales, hot over Victor’s hand. He circles his tongue around the digit before it pops out of his mouth. “I think the right word is ‘overwhelm’? It’s… make it so I can’t see straight. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to analyze. You know what I want; you know how to handle me… I want you to do just that, without holding back. Hold me down, mark me up- I trust you. So…”

Now Victor nods, and exhales deeply. If that isn’t the most honest thing he’s ever been told during foreplay… Regardless, the sentiment is one he understands. Not the need for pain, exactly, but the need to be filled up so completely by sensation that you don’t know which way is heaven and which way is hell.


Yuuri pushes him so they’re shoulder length apart. Victor rests his weight on his hands and watches how serious Yuuri becomes, even around all the extra breath.

“Are you gonna be okay if I cry?”

Victor is a little blindsided. And it must show on his face, because Yuuri continues, “You’ve said you aren’t the best with people crying in front of you—I remember—but I won’t be crying because I’m upset, or because you’ve done anything wrong, just—”

Victor places his hand against Yuuri’s lips.

“I’ll be fine, even if you cry.”

Against Victor’s fingers pressing his bottom lip down, Yuuri asks, “Really?”

“I promise. As long as you tell me if you’re-” He stops, shakes his head. Yuuri had said he didn’t want to think about it. Victor licks his own bottom lip and continues, “Rather. If it’s too much. Tell me. Alright?”

Yuuri nods, but it’s unconvincing in the face of all the other movement.

“Alright?” Victor asks again, moving to grip Yuuri’s hip and digging his nails into flesh just under the small of his back—distracting enough to force him to answer.

“Okay,” Yuuri breathes, pushing back into the grip of Victor’s hand.

He wants to honor this: how Yuuri is trying to shift the balance. To give Victor the reigns in the way he’d never quite been able to with Victor as his coach. There is literally nothing in the world Victor would rather do less than break Yuuri’s trust—but he wants to take away the burden Yuuri puts on himself of thinking so damn much all the time.

“Do you want a safe word?”

Yuuri just looks at him. Not blankly, not like the concept is completely foreign to him—but still a little askance. “Can’t I just tell you ‘no’?”

Victor trips over himself saying, “Of course.”

As far as he’s concerned, at this point, anything Yuuri says is law.




Yuuri knows what it all means. Hears the uncertainty in Victor’s tone, if not the words. Victor has always asked; he’s always been a little unsure how to lead him.

But with the way Victor’s acting, Yuuri can feel himself go uncontainable and sultry—the way he felt when he first danced Eros as the most beautiful woman in town. There’s something in being an object of desire, in getting people to view him the way he wanted, to do to him exactly what he wanted—to get Victor to do exactly as Victor likes, because he wants him so much, and Yuuri knows it, and Victor knows that Yuuri knows it.

And that is what encourages Victor.

“I want to work you open,” Victor says.

Per his usual routine of waiting for Victor after a trip, he’d already done some initial prep; he’d told Victor he had. “I already-”

“I know. I want to feel how warm and slippery you already are… and then I want to make more of a mess of you. I want to have you begging for my cock inside you.”

Yuuri hadn’t really planned on saying no to anything tonight—let alone something like that.

He shoulders to the side; he needs the extra leverage to reach blindly into the drawer and dig around by feel. And that shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is—he’s eager, and it’s showing. It goes on for a second too long, and Victor pulls himself away from the heat of Yuuri’s skin, away from where he’d been dragging teeth and tongue along his collarbone. He asks, “Can you find it without the light?”

Yuuri stops shuffling, enough to turn back and pull a face at him. “Yes.”

Victor laughs, an amused little chuckle—one that Yuuri feels is at his expense, somehow, even as Victor leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re irritated.”

“ ‘m not irritated,” Yuuri grumbles, flopping toward the edge of the bed again. He finds what he wants, and almost sounds his triumph. “Just want you to stop teasing me and follow through on what you promised in the living room.”

Popping the cap on the lube, Yuuri looks back at Victor. He’s a little startled to see Victor bite his lower lip. It’s getting too dark to see whether Victor is blushing—even when he does, he doesn’t color the way Yuuri himself does, all dramatic, up all the way to his ears sometimes. But it does look like his gaze has gone… what, shy?

After everything Victor has said to him since he got home, everything that Yuuri has been saying to Victor, Victor is shy?

Eventually, Victor’s lower lip springs free of white teeth, full and tempting. And he says, “I don’t want to tease you. I want to make you feel… everything.”

This should make Yuuri want to roll his eyes; but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes him smile grimly and say, “Then make me. I’m in your hands.”

Victor seems to take him at his word. He nods. There’s newly forged steel in his voice when he says, “Turn on the light while you’re there.”

Yuuri does.

When he returns, Victor asks him, “What should I do with you?” It sounds bossy, presumptuous—and Yuuri shudders when Victor continues, “You’ve got quite the attitude for someone who wants to be taken apart.”

Then Victor pulls him upright ’til they’re both on their knees, facing each other. Even around the excitement, around the nerves—which Yuuri thinks he’s masking better than Victor is—they take time to explore, to kiss slow and hot and promising. Victor, graceful as always, doesn’t even break the kiss to pluck the bottle from Yuuri’s grip, or when he goes to spread it over his own fingers. He starts to open Yuuri up, gently, first knuckles and the pads of his fingers, but Yuuri wants more. Goes to add his own fingers-

Victor swats his hand away, clipping his ass.

Yuuri’s gasp is so loud that he barely hears Victor say, “Let me do it, you little control freak.”

Yuuri registers it too late. That he hasn't moved his hand, that he’s stock-still when Victor’s already given him directions. He’s not sure if the first hit was on purpose, but this one definitely is: hot sting over the side of his thigh where Victor slaps at him, Victor’s other hand goes tight around his wrist.

He takes both of Yuuri’s wrists, then. Slowly moves them upward. Pulls him forward so they rest over the defined muscles on either side of Victor’s neck.

“Hands here,” Victor says. “I already told you, I want to work you open myself.”

And it’s definitely a command, but Victor still looks Yuuri in the eyes with something like a question—and Yuuri nods.




Yuuri nods and presses his chest against Victor’s. The movement sends his back into a beautiful arch that Victor can’t help but scratch the backs of his nails over. He leans his chin over Yuuri’s shoulders so he can see the fleeting red lines, watch them fade back to tan. He grips Yuuri’s ass with both hands at the end of the long pull of fingers. God, his ass is perfect. All the time, but at the beginning of the season, when he’s coming back from a few weeks off from intensive training, it’s—

This view is almost good enough that he can see it when he slips the very tips of two fingers into Yuuri. It’s obviously not what Yuuri wants—or it’s not exactly what he wants, or it’s not enough. When he whines, Victor removes his fingertips and sets his palm against Yuuri’s ass, squeezing hard before he delivers a slap there.

The whine becomes a gasp.

Victor watches as a diffuse patch of red stays, a few moments longer than the scratches. Says, almost dispassionately—around the heart in his throat— “When you act like a child, you’re asking to be treated like one.”

He spanks Yuuri, open handed and stinging, right over the top of one cheek. And the gasp becomes a groan.

To get the leverage he wants, Victor has to unhook his chin from over Yuuri’s shoulder. On the next hit, Yuuri starts squirming against Victor’s front, almost but not quite like he’s trying to get away. Victor, using one hand splayed against Yuuri’s back, keeps him exactly where he is.

Then he’s tapping, walking his fingers toward Yuuri’s center, nudging the flesh aside to dip between his cheeks. Yuuri sighs and closes his eyes. In surrender, Victor thinks.

The muscles in Yuuri’s stomach twitch, as Victor prods and eventually pushes into him. One finger again, to tease him, then two. He gets to three, knuckles catching at his rim, curling his fingers as deep as he can before Yuuri jerks, like he isn’t sure whether he should sink into the thorough attention, whether to expect the gentle overwhelm that is Victor’s accustomed treatment of him in bed—or whether he should stay ready, stay on his toes.

Victor, knowing that it’s what Yuuri wants, what Yuuri expects, keeps him there. In that uncertainty. He pulls his fingers out and grips the full flesh of his ass with both hands, scratches down one cheek with enough force, he hopes, to warn him.

But Yuuri has other ideas—pushes forward, into the solid muscle of Victor’s body, the muscles in his thighs bunching and rocking him forward. In response, Victor grabs at the back of Yuuri’s head, buries his left hand in his hair and anchors him.

Tells him, “Yuuri. If you want to put yourself in my hands, you have to take your hands away. Do you need me to make you?”

Yuuri’s breath catches. It’s not a bad sound; not uncertainty, or even shock, but Victor still wonders how much further he can take this. Then again. Victor, as Yuuri knows, has no shame in saying any of this out loud. And even though Yuuri hadn’t asked outright—he won’t, just like he won’t say so many things—he thinks Yuuri does want Victor to say it.

“You started to listen, just now. Was it because I spanked you?” Yuuri’s face goes bright red but his breathing just speeds up in agreement. “Is that the only way you’re going to learn? To listen to me?”

Yuuri opens his mouth like he wants to say yes. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip. His eyes dart everywhere but forward.

Victor thinks it will be a mercy not to wait for a verbal response. And because he doesn’t plan on offering other mercies, he says, “We’ll try it, then.” The overt softness of his tone forces Yuuri’s blush down to his chest. “Stay still. I’m going to give you what you’re asking for.”

In answer, Yuuri finally, finally sinks against Victor. Victor pulls the hand that’s not in Yuuri’s hair back and spanks him again. Yuuri starts gasping, bearing his teeth against Victor’s shoulder; but he’s nodding, struggling to tell Victor how much he wants it even with the grip keeping his head in place.

And he’s compliant—so agreeable, so good—when Victor shifts him over his arm. It’s a little awkward; one of Yuuri’s arms catches around Victor’s forearm and the other snaking under his upper arm, so he’s crosswise against Victor’s side. The heat of him, the weight, the way he submits to it makes Victor dizzy. God, it’s… Alright, it’s a lot awkward—but for a moment, how unsteady it makes them both is all that Victor can process, and he wants that. That momentary space for Victor to work, like he’s holding them both up, pulling them both up.

Victor’s given him a few strokes already. He doesn’t know whether it’s that, or the new angle—but once he’s got Yuuri vulnerable, he brings his hand down with a force that seems to surprise Yuuri.

It can’t last; it’s more space, but it isn’t better leverage, not when Victor’s trying to support Yuuri’s weight this way. It’s too much to pay attention to—and Victor’s a skater, not a rower.

When Victor shifts, he has enough strength in his thighs to sink them both down. Slowly, measured. Yuuri practically falls drops against him; but Victor’s carrying them both, seating himself against the sheets so his own thighs are spread, heels tucked to the side so he doesn’t have to focus on keeping his own weight up.

Quietly, Victor says, “Come here.” Like it’s what he’s intended this whole time. He doesn’t get any resistance from Yuuri. In fact, he could swear he gets a little help, in the way Yuuri lets Victor settle him against one of Victor’s thighs, chest-down.

Yuuri yields a noise that is helpless and satisfied at the exact same time, as Victor runs his hands over his lover’s back. Down over the strong muscles of his sides, his ass, the backs of his thighs. If Victor isn’t careful, he’s going to start mentally drafting epic poetry about Yuuri’s calves, about the way one of his feet lifts up, pointing the toe like he’s trying hard not to struggle—and Victor doesn’t want to be anywhere other than exactly where he is, mentally or physically.

So instead, he places one hand between Yuuri’s shoulder blades and presses him down, keeping his upper body settled against Victor’s thigh. Victor barely offers a warning, spreading that left hand like a starfish over Yuuri’s back and lifting the right.

Several hits land squarely over the little triangle between Yuuri’s thighs and his ass. Victor doesn’t feel the way they vibrate through Yuuri’s entire body the way he did when they were both up on their knees; but this is better, if only for the fact that Victor feels more in control of himself when Yuuri flails the arm closest to Victor out and backward, as if he’s trying for something to hold onto.

The sounds Yuuri makes are beautiful—all overwhelm, all surrender. And then into one noise creeps the sound of defiance. Yuuri holds his breath; Victor tracks it, offers another slap, and Yuuri repeats the sound.

Victor stops, smooths his hand over the skin, reddened by the most recent strike. “You told me to hurt you, малыш. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but Yuuri’s next breath sounds almost like a laugh. Then, even over the crack of his hand against the backs of Yuuri’s thighs, he hears it. The second that Yuuri starts to cry, that first gasp and gush, and Victor is… a little gratified.

Gratified, and then relieved, when he realizes he can’t see Yuuri’s eyes, that all he can see is one bead drip down the end of Yuuri’s nose. He watches it fall to the rumpled coverlet.

The obviousness of it feels almost mean, but Victor still asks, “Are you crying?”

Yuuri answers—Victor hears Yuuri make himself vocalize it—“Mhm.”

Victor strokes his hand down Yuuri’s back again, over his ass and his thighs, laying off for a moment, half-mesmerized by the subtle shifts in the color of Yuuri’s skin—not just his backside, but the blush that bleeds to the tips of his ears, the back of his neck, where the sweat is gathering, curling the hair there.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.” It’s very soft, his answer. And it’s all earnest, desperate in a way Yuuri’s voice can only reach when all the emotion is on the surface. Victor’s voice sounds pale in comparison when he speaks next.


Yuuri adjusts his grip on Victor, even pushes out the beautiful arch of his back, knowing exactly what that does to Victor. “You can keep going.”

Uncertainty bleeding back to gratification, Victor starts up again. It sounds like sex, that slapping rhythm, and under it, he can hear that Yuuri continues to cry. But he’s pushing through it, he’s still here, exactly where he wants to be. Exactly where Victor wants him, he finds. He’s proud, that Yuuri’s still gripping his arm like he’s clawing into the moment, like he’s asking Victor for more.

And he finds that there’s some side of him—some darkly amused voice he’d usually drive down, or hide behind sarcasm—that gives him permission to gives Yuuri more. He quickens the pace, ups the force, and Yuuri starts to dig his toes into the bedding.

But Yuuri chokes. One breath smooth, the next shattered. Craning his neck so he can meet Victor’s eyes, Yuuri demands, “Victor, stop.”

Victor halts immediately. He pulls Yuuri up so they’re face to face, settling them both against the bed so they’re laying facing one another. But he takes his hands from Yuuri; he lets go, holds both hands between them. He probably makes a bit of a show of it. Trusts Yuuri enough to reinitiate contact if he needs the support—which he does, fingertips buried against the warm skin of Victor’s neck. Yuuri’s face is red, wet, and a little hard to read, and he’s sweating at the temples. One trickle has started down the side of his face, almost indiscernible from his tears. But Victor has no idea what Yuuri’s tone meant and he—

Yuuri actually laughs.

Just as Victor is about to feel insulted, Yuuri launches himself across the space Victor has made between them and wraps both arms around him, hugging him before moving up to his lips and kissing them—his top lip, bottom lip.

Yuuri pulls away, a centimeter maybe, and whispers again his mouth—a little too giddy for someone who’s just been treated as he had—“You’re doing good. And I’m fine. I could feel you shaking, was all…”

Victor lets out the breath he was holding. He shakes his head, and feels deep in the muscles of his arms that yes, he is still trembling a little.

“Had you done this with anyone, before?” Yuuri continues.

Now Victor nods—and knows that while he was already blushing, he’s gone redder. They don’t talk about their respective pasts very often; Yuuri because he has very little to share, and Victor because Yuuri hadn’t seemed open to it. In fact, this is the first time he can remember Yuuri asking such a direct question about previous romantic entanglements. Unsure how delicate he should be, Victor continues, “But not with—not ever…”

Yuuri nods in the face of his poor articulation. “Not with someone you actually cared about hurting.”

The understanding, the acceptance in that tone leaves Victor winded, makes him wonder—for the thousandth time—what he ever did to deserve this creature. Makes him cup Yuuri’s jaw with both hands and kisses him deep and thorough.

“I love you,” Victor says. Not sure why saying it right now makes him want to cry.

But he doesn’t; and he’s glad for it, when Yuuri ducks down enough to look him in the eye and say, “Love you, too.”




It’s been a few weeks since they’ve had penetrative sex—bar the night Victor had first teased him about spanking, those weeks ago, they’ve both been too physically focused on their new routines to risk injury. To risk even exhaustion. So it takes a good while for Yuuri to first calm down enough to take Victor’s fingers inside him, and then to get adjusted to the feeling again. Victor trusts him enough to tell him when he’s ready, usually, so he tries that. Tries what he knows. Slinking out of Victor’s grip, he says, “Alright,” with impatience. More at himself than at Victor. He flips himself over—hopefully, with more grace than he feels—until he’s lying in his front and spreading his thighs to give Victor room.

And Victor settles himself in that space, alright, but not how Yuuri expects. He sets his hands just beside Yuuri’s hips, leans over him so he can drag his tongue from the center of him and all the way up his spine. Yuuri sucks in a breath, jolts forward, before glancing back over his shoulder.


Victor places his forearm over Yuuri’s lower back, holding him in place. “Remember you just need to say the word if you want to stop.”

And with that, he sinks three fingers back inside. Wiggles the tip of his little finger in, as well. And Yuuri makes a sound that gives him away entirely. Victor pulls down against Yuuri’s rim—and the stretch feels outrageous. Yuuri rocks up onto his forearms to brace himself. He’s not struggling, he’s trying to take it, but Victor answers him with a near-vicious pinch where his hand rests over the skin of Yuuri’s hip.

“Calm down, now. Relax,” he says— like he’s talking to a thoroughbred stallion and not a man, words without meaning except in their tone, thumbing over the spot he’d just used so harshly. He pushes down with that arm against Yuuri’s lower back again and lowers his head so he can—oh, so he can drag his teeth over the skin of his ass, and if the direction is anything to go by, if he relaxes enough—

He sinks against the sheets, lets Victor keep stretching him, and it must be that Victor can feel the way the very core of him goes slack and compliant, because Victor says, “Good, really good, Yuuri.” And presses the tip of his tongue inside him along with his fingers.

And that. Getting what he wants—without asking, but immediately after doing something that pleases Victor… that’s so delicious he has to all but step outside of himself not to come. But he keeps himself relaxed, so he can keep getting it.

Victor keeps him on the very edge of destruction. Only once he’s dripping precum and saliva does Victor pull away, does he start pushing at Yuuri’s shoulders to get him exactly where he wants him. Yuuri goes, taking each cue, but lets every other muscle stay as loose as possible so Victor will have no trouble working himself inside. He wants—as much as he can want anything around the lust cottoning up his mind—to make it as easy as possible for Victor to fuck him into oblivion.

He’s maneuvered until he’s laying on his side, one leg pushed up toward his own stomach. Victor grips his naked prick and lines himself up.

At that, Yuuri nods, moves restlessly, shoving himself back. But Victor holds back. Once he’s inside, he closes his fist lightly around Yuuri’s cock as he fucks Yuuri open, slight at first. Yuuri tries to rock back—but Victor smacks him open handed, over his thigh, and says, “I’m not going to hurt you like this. Just wait.”

Given how keyed up he still is, Yuuri could actually hurt himself taking too much at a time, and neither of them are aiming for injury.

Pain, sure, but not injury.

Victor knows what he’s doing. And Yuuri trusts him; this is really the only way he can get Yuuri ready for rougher sex, beyond the relatively shallow penetration of fingers. After Victor is able to work all the way inside, slide base to tip with no resistance, Victor asks, “Okay?”

Yuuri nods, feeling dizzy, drunk.

When Yuuri’s cranes his neck further to really look Victor in the eyes, it’s there. That repeated question: what should I do with you?

Is this too much? Is it enough?

In that question, Victor hands over exactly one hundred percent of the control to Yuuri. To confirm it, he reaches up, touches Victor softly, almost reverently on the chin—before pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

Victor was already still. Now, he’s frozen.

Yuuri says, with military certainty, “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The crisp sound of the “t” echoes in the space between them, and Victor looks like he’s the one that’s been hit. They’re completely still, silent—long enough for Yuuri to wonder whether that was the right thing to say, whether he’s read this situation correctly. Almost long enough to worry.

Hand shooting to the back of Yuuri’s neck, Victor pulls out and manhandles him from his side to his front. And the pressure doesn’t let up; Victor keeps his hand there, pressing his face into the bedding. He’s got the other hand at Yuuri’s hip, trying to force him backward, but his legs are spread too wide for him to meet Victor halfway.

Victor’s tone is darkly explanatory when he speaks again.

“Since you’re so eager. I’m gonna go ahead and fuck you hard enough that that spanking’s not the only reason you’re walking funny tomorrow. Up,” Victor demands—and just after the grip on his hip disappears, the soft skin on the inside of Yuuri’s thigh goes hot with unexpected pain. At this stinging prompt, he rushes to raise himself up on hands and knees, but he’s covered in sweat, now, and the slip-slick of the bedding underneath his legs isn’t helping. He drops forward onto his elbows and arches his back, praying there’s room for Victor, praying Victor will hurry up and fuck him already. He gets a harsh slap to the inside of the other thigh for his trouble—Yuuri squeezes his eyes closed and gasps, chokes—but this position seems acceptable, because Yuuri’s being held by both hips and forced backward to meet Victor’s own hips. Victor’s cockhead teases at his rim, and he slips back into him a little at a time.

Yuuri reaches upward blindly, stretching his arms until he finds a joint in the headboard to wrap both hands around. It puts a strain on the muscles in his shoulders, but it’ll give him enough of an anchor—he hopes—to take what’s coming.

Fuck, you are gorgeous—”

Victor’s words hit him in the gut just as Victor’s cock hits his prostate dead on, and then again. He hears himself shout—once, only. Sound gets bottlenecked at the back of his throat, after that.

One hand returns to the back of Yuuri’s neck, and Victor leans over him, and the tickle of his hair against Yuuri’s shoulders is such a stark contrast to the fierce rhythm that he shudders. Holding him down harder, Victor asks, “You want it like this?”

His answering “uh huh” is nothing but air. All breath.

Victor slows, and delivers an attention-grabbing swat. “I asked you a question.” 

So Yuuri tries again.

“Yeah…” he manages, and it’s delicate, almost, a little beckoning, and Yuuri lets it, he lets it sound like the tease it is when he says, “Yes, Victor, Vitya, please.”

It gets him exactly what he wants. Victor leans back, scant space enough to spread his fingers like a hot brand between Yuuri’s shoulders and pin him—the way he had when Yuuri was spread over his lap. Only now, it’s to fuck him, rhythm unforgiving.

The slap of skin on skin is noisy—but not as loud as the next impact of Victor’s hand against the outside of his thigh. Victor keeps him pinned down, much of his weight resting against the middle of Yuuri’s back, and delivers a few strikes to all the sensitive skin he can reach, before spreading himself once again over Yuuri’s back.

Victor can hear better from here, probably, how helpless he sounds, how he’s started crying again—not even out of pain, just out of the sheer feeling of letting Victor overpower him.

“Take a deep breath for me, Yuuri.”

It sounds just like the tone he’s used to make that request before—when he’s asking Yuuri to visualize the next jump, when he’s guiding Yuuri down from a panic attack. When he’d first had Yuuri, all those months ago—and it was deeper than Yuuri thought he could take it, virginal and unsure as he was. Now, though—unlike any other time Yuuri can recall—he doesn’t balk against the suggestion in the slightest.

He takes one deep, mindless breath.

This time, when Victor presses sweaty and unyielding against Yuuri’s back, he takes Yuuri’s cock in hand, and strokes him, fucks him in time with it, and—

Well. That’s all it takes.

“Vi- Victor, god, Victor—”

He babbles, and the weight of his orgasm is as crushing as Victor’s hand between his shoulder blades. He’s glad for that—he’s glad he’s holding onto something, too, because he comes for what feels too long to be real, gripping the metal under his sweaty palms and clenching around Victor still inside him.

Victor sits back a little, smoothes his hand up and down Yuuri’s back. But he doesn’t pull out. He waits until Yuuri’s jerking a little with the aftershocks, and then he cants his hips forward a little, and starts to ask, “Yuuri—”

“Please…” he interrupts—he knows he’s interrupting, can hear the question and the hesitation in his own name, and he probably should wait for Victor to voice his concern so Yuuri can reassure him. But he’s finally asking nicely, and he thinks Victor will forgive him the rudeness. And if he doesn’t, well. “Fill me up, Vitya, please—”

It takes no more convincing. Victor withdraws—Yuuri isn’t ready for that, and he lets a full-on whimper escape him as he goes—but then rolls Yuuri almost gently onto his back. “I have to see that pretty face,” Victor explains, as he slides home. Yuuri feels like he’s pulling him in, sucking him in, clenching at him once he gets deep enough. Victor’s propped up, hands on either side of Yuuri’s head, offering a barely there push and pull and watching him squirm. Yuuri lets himself plead again, reaching out and wrapping both arms around Victor's shoulders. Then Victor presses himself flush against Yuuri, and doesn’t rest at all between pulling out minutely and thrusting, immediately setting his rhythm. That pace, leisurely and grinding, slower than Yuuri prefers it but exactly what Victor needs. Yuuri’s own heartbeat crescendos in empathy, and he makes sure his mouth is right under Victor’s ear when the tell of Victor’s breathing lets him know how close Victor is.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, preemptively—and smiles in quiet triumph when Victor buries his face against Yuuri’s shoulder and whines through his own climax.



Once Victor gets ahold of himself, he shifts his weight to the side, but only marginally. It’s not going to be too much for his lover; Yuuri has told him plenty of times that he likes the press of Victor’s body over his. Victor stays inside him, too, letting his pulse relax, letting his blood redistribute itself, only pulling his hips away when he’s too soft to stop from slipping out.

He thought he might have to help calm Yuuri down. But given the way he’d held on, and then coaxed him along in his own quest for orgasm with an answering roll of his hips and a verbal tease, Yuuri’s probably more calm, more in control, than he is. He’s running his fingers through Victor’s hair as Victor breathes against the hollow of his throat. But after a few long inhales, he’s too curious to stop from pushing himself up on his elbows, from looking his lover over from head to toe. Yuuri’s eyes drift open and closed at seeming random intervals—definitely fucked-out and exhausted, but here, present, not lost or frantic.

Victor leans down to kiss his swollen mouth. He shifts them both to their sides, runs his hands from Yuuri’s shoulders, over his ribs and hip, down and around to his ass where the skin is hot to the touch. Pulling away from the kiss, he lifts his upper body so he can watch his fingers slide along sweaty skin, press fingertips into the pink marks on the outside of Yuuri’s thighs—which makes Yuuri gasp. He’d been so demanding, before, but he’s adorable about it, here in the afterglow. He changes the course of his trailing fingers to the soft of the inside of Yuuri’s legs, thumbing at the join of his thigh and hip, slick and a little sticky with sweat and spend.

дерьмо́, I got you good right here…”

He traces his fingertips over the delicate skin of Yuuri’s inner thigh, over a bright red patch, and Yuuri flinches—and then gives a breathless laugh.

“I don’t even know how you did it from that angle. You must not be skipping out on arm day…”

Yuuri stands up, then. Victor definitely watches his own semen drip down the inside of Yuuri’s thigh, over the marks he made, and he short-circuits a little.




Yuuri stands up in the center of the area rug, and a hand goes to his temple.

“I didn’t realize how dizzy I was…”

Yuuri hears Victor makes a smug sound—and then gasp through his nose when Yuuri makes for their bedroom door.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” Yuuri says, over his shoulder—a little perplexed. Victor usually doesn’t mind the sight of him walking away—not ever, but especially after they have sex, since he never bothers to get dressed.

“Okay,” Victor says, and Yuuri can hear how reluctant it is, so he tells him that he’ll be right back.

When he gets back, Victor manhandles him back down to the bed, covers him in limbs and kisses.

“You’re so needy,” Yuuri laughs.

“Yep. And not sorry about it.”

And they’re peaceful, nothing but contact, but skin and sweat, until Victor asks, “That was what you wanted, right?”

“Yeah.” Yuuri cards his fingers through Victor’s bangs, and watches his eyes get heavier. “It was perfect. You were perfect. You always take such good care of me.”

Victor offers him pleased little smile and the barest blush.

Yuuri starts feeling a little possessive over that pretty face, over the imaginings of his neck, long and lean muscles of his back. Says, quite without thinking, “Next time, I want to take you, though—and on your hands and knees.”

And he expects Victor to say something snarky, or calculated-cool like, “Oh really?” But instead, he nuzzles his way under Yuuri’s chin and says:

“Anything for you, Yuuri.”

And suddenly that “next time” seems a lot more imminent.




They’re back at the rink two days later—Yuuri noting how Victor always handles him so gently when putting him in position. Hands on him soft, even when correcting his form. It’s always matter-of-fact rather than a matter of discipline, or of pride; and much kinder than Minako’s corrections had ever been.

When they’re cleaning up in the locker room, alone and unhurried, Yuuri finds himself saying, “Thank you for being so good to me, Victor.”

Victor’s back stiffens where he’s turned around, pulling on a new shirt. Yuuri has half a second for his anxiety to kick in—but then Victor asks, “Is that why was it so hard for you to say you wanted to be manhandled a bit?”


Yuuri hadn’t been thinking along those lines at all, and he feels his entire face flood with color, down his neck and up to his ears.

“Or maybe you weren’t thinking about it. I have an inkling, then.”

“O-okay,” Yuuri nods, open to Victor and his guidance in a way he wasn’t—before he was sure that it was reciprocal.

Victor isn’t unkind, but he gets right to the heart of it. As always. He takes Yuuri’s chin in his hands and says, “You made up your mind, in your head, quite without consulting me, and you thought if you asked, that’s how things were going to be? Like I don’t understand that sometimes you need gentle handling?”

It actually, physically hurts, how deep his blush settles under his skin now—at the truth, at the reminder that Victor knows what sometimes goes wrong. He didn’t know, right before last year’s Grand Prix Finals. But now, he knows that Yuuri has gaping holes in his ability to communicate, particularly with regard to what he needs—particularly before it becomes a problem. (And he’s still going to marry Yuuri, gaps and all. Victor remains the one wonder in Yuuri’s life that will never cease.)

“I- I wasn’t sure if you wanted to change it up that much. Our dynamic.”

Victor’s smile goes irrepressibly wide. Almost that heart-shape that Yuuri loves so much. “Yuuri… You know surprise is kind of my forte, yes?”

This makes Yuuri smile. “Yeah. I remember.”

“So if you want to surprise me by topping from the bottom? Or if you want to break out an entire catalog of toys and equipment for me to use on you?”

Yuuri gasps, but holds Victor’s eyes—

“—I’m up for that. For whatever you want.” Victor runs his bottom lip through his teeth before he adds, “You know I’m taking these cues from you… Right?”

Yuuri sees how delicate, how unsure, Victor looks in this threshold of a moment. It makes him want to press a thousand soft kisses into the soft space behind Victor’s ears, over his collarbone, in the hollow of his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Yuuri repeats, on an exhale. “I got that.”

Victor smiles, each side of his lips quirking up in succession. “So what do you want now, Yuuri?”

“Hnn,” Yuuri hums, breaching the small space of Victor’s personal bubble. “When we get home?”

He’s going up onto his toes to press a wet kiss to Victor’s lips. He shifts up onto his toes, taking Victor’s jaws in his hands and running his tongue along the roof of Victor’s mouth. Victor whines pathetically, and Yuuri has the grace to finish kissing him before he shifts back to his heels, fingers shifting through Victor’s sideburns before he steps away.

Now, he switches to Japanese—only partially because it’s easier in his native language, but also because he knows the way it makes Victor’s toes curl when he does.

“I want you to make love to me, Vitya. Slow, but deep. Just how I know you like it.”

Victor gives an exhaled, punched out sound. Looks at him, lost and searching, gripping Yuuri’s hand to the side of his face where it rests. He seems to forget that it’s a game—that he’s being teased, until he looks down the lean line of Yuuri’s core and asks, “I won’t hurt you if we do? …Aren’t you still… Aren’t you still feeling it?”

Yuuri answers, “Yes, but here more than anywhere else…”

Yuuri places his hand low over his belly, like he's saying he can still feel Victor pressed up against his insides.

At that moment, Yuri—who definitely doesn't remember enough Japanese to know what Yuuri has said, but who sees what Yuuri is doing as well as the slightly surprised, pinkened look Victor gets—pops into the locker room. And pops out in an exact mirror, like reality on rewind.

Yuuri brings both hands over his mouth. Muffled, he manages, “Oh.”

They both hear Mila shout, “What’s going on?”

I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”